Blog

Posted on

with friends like this…

from Fr. Kyle's snapchat
from Fr. Kyle’s snapchat

I went to the Braves game with these two, Sarah and Fr. Kyle, which means a little bit of baseball, and a lot of talking and cutting up. The game was incidental, in spite of the friendly rivalry between the Braves fans, Sarah and me — and Fr Kyle in his Cincinnati Reds get-up. I tweeted Braves vs. Cubs for about 4 innings. He didn’t notice. I didn’t notice.

It was definitely a social evening spiced up by the occasional exciting play. I guess baseball goes that way. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Double! Nothing. Home run! Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Double play! Nothing.

And then the ride home.

I was sprawled in the back seat, listening to their chatter up front when I recognized the vanity plate on the car next to us. “Roll down the window!”

Sarah refused, thinking I was engaging with a stranger. Just two days ago I shocked her by asking the guy in front of us in the ice cream line if I could take his picture. It was true, he was a doppleganger for a mutual friend of ours, but mostly, I was doing it because she was mortified. I get it — she was done with my shenanigans.

This guy driving the car is a former colleague. Really. I convinced her to roll down the window in time for me to call his name.

He turned around, processed who I was, and shouted back happily, “My mom read your book!”

Full disclosure: as an author, it’s both gratifying and humbling when people read your book. Some people like it and tell you. Some don’t like it, and aren’t shy about telling you. LOL. That second one. It keeps me humble.

But there’s nothing like friends to keep you humble. The evening started with a crack about my mom pants. And it ended with a crack about writing books for moms. True on both counts. I love my friends, y’all. I really do.

 

Posted on

love love love

I’m sipping some tea late into the night. It was hot at the baseball game, and even though we were having fun, it was hot. So now, after a shower, I don’t feel like going to sleep, but I don’t want to watch any more news, either. Tomorrow I’ll catch up. Tonight, I think I’ll just sit in the half light, drink my tea before it gets cold, and pray. The world needs prayer. And love. So much love.

I like the technique proposed by Pope Francis, to use your hand as a guide for prayer:

1. Thumb: This is closest to you, so pray for your dear ones, your family, your friends.

2. Index finger. We point with this finger – pray for teachers, the people who guide you, law enforcement and emergency responders. They need God’s guidance, too, to do their work.

3. The middle finger. Sometimes we use it in a not-so-nice-manner. It’s the tallest finger, so pray for our leaders. The world is a mess. Policies are a mess. People are a mess. We need good leaders to help us. To make this world a better place for everyone.

4. The ring finger. Associated with marriage and love. It’s also the weakest finger. Pray for the weak. The marginalized. The misunderstood. We are all God’s children. We are all worthy of  love.

5. The pinkie.  This is the smallest finger, and reminds you to pray for yourself. Putting ourselves last in this prayer strategy doesn’t mean we dismiss ourselves — it helps us order our needs after thinking broadly about our relationships.

Posted on

it’s not quite goodbye

windowI sat on the raised fireplace hearth this morning and drank my coffee while I nibbled on some madeleines. We packed up the heavy furniture last night, and the only thing left are smaller pieces we can take with us on the back of a pick-up truck. It’s too soon to say goodbye.

madeleinesThe bitter coffee and the sweet cakes pretty much summed up my mood.

Last night, in the silliness that comes in the late hour after a long day, my son and I spoke loudly across the house to hear the echo. It was funny.

This morning as I look beyond the windows to the sunny day, I notice that what we’ve left behind is his great-grandmother’s trunk, filled to over-flowing with a lifetime, many lifetimes, of pictures. Of memories lovingly made and perhaps long forgotten. I call the dog and hear my voice echo again.

Everything is an echo as the memories of this room come back. When we moved in, there was a terrible baby blue carpet, freshly installed, so we kept it. There’s no accounting for taste in the 90s. It was the decade that spawned nylon track suits as acceptable attire. I know, I had a hot pink and teal one that I just unloaded at Goodwill.

We spent our first night in this home sprawled on that blue carpet, watching tv, and making little blanket pallets to sleep on. It started a family tradition of many pallet nights, with finger food dinners and family-friendly movies on Friday nights until those evenings were replaced with football games and school dances. Sigh. A lot of time has passed here.

We replaced the ugly blue carpet with bright wood flooring after the kids were grown.

I’m the one that’s blue today.

Pin It on Pinterest

Share This